


Ash Wednesday

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Catholic!John, Catholic!Lestrade, Consent Issues, Drunkenness, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Mike, Fem!Sherlock, Femslash, Genderswap, Handcuffs, Light Bondage, Male!Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, Masturbation, Possessive Sherlock, Roman Catholicism, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade and John sober up quickly after a night of drinking. All genderswapped. Alternating John/Sherlock/Lestrade POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ash Wednesday (POV John)

**Author's Note:**

> In my genderswapped AU, John and Lestrade are Catholic and attended Catholic school together as girls.

_Lestrade looked like shit._

“Here you go,” said John; her voice was rough. She placed a steaming mug of tea in front of her friend.

“Ta,” mumbled Lestrade.

_Whew! Her breath could peel the wallpaper._

John opened the kitchen drawers one by one and found a travel toothbrush set that she’d picked up at a medical conference and never used. She tossed it to Lestrade.

“Heads up, Greg,” she said. The packet hit Lestrade’s shoulder and dropped to the floor. She leant down and picked it up and groaned.

John’s tongue felt furry, and her head throbbed. Even the prospect of tea was not enough to completely still the queasiness in her guts. She took her own mug and sat down at the table in front of Lestrade.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here,” said Lestrade. “Sorry I kicked you out of your room.”

“No problem. You’re always welcome. Plus, our sleeping arrangements are kind of fluid,” said John as she threw a glance at Sherlock’s closed bedroom door. “We had quite the time last night.” 

“Yeah, it was good,” said Lestrade with a weak grin. “Who knew that Mardi Gras at an expat pub would turn out to be so much fun? Too bad that Mike and her cousins had to go home early; they left just when things were starting to get wild.”

“I think she had to get them to the airport early this morning, but my recollection is a bit hazy at that point,” said John.

They sipped their tea.

“Umm…John, we’ve been friends for a long time,” said Lestrade hesitatingly. 

John interrupted, “Technically, we’ve been friends for a few years separated by a couple of decades, but I get your meaning.” John noted that her friend looked worried and… _guilty _.__

“In the interest of starting Lent off on the right foot…I need to confess something,” said Lestrade.

“Already confessing? Miss Lestrade, if Sister Mary Francis could see you now! She would be so proud!” joked John.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” said Lestrade. “I…was drunk…”

“We were both drunk,” admitted John. “I am a doctor, Lestrade, whatever bodily fluids you got on the sheets upstairs, I can assure you that I have seen it before, and it’s all fine.”

“Well,” said Lestrade, “that’s actually kind of good…because I think I…may have…used your vibrator!” Lestrade dropped a felt bag on the table. _Thunk!_

“HOLY FUCK!” screamed John. _HOLY FUCK! HOLY FUCK!_ She put her hands over her mouth and stared at the bag. A sharp wave of nausea hit her.

“I’m sorry; I’m sorry; I’m so, so sorry. It’s so Not Good. I will clean it. Hell, I’ll buy you a new one if that’s not kind of pervy,” hurried Lestrade. She took her wallet out and started to pull out bills. “It was in your room, under the bed…”

“Greg,” said John, putting a hand over hers, stopping her. 

“That’s not my vibrator.” 

“HOLY FUCK!” screamed Lestrade.

A door squeaked. An elegant hand scooped up the felt bag and deposited a pair of police-issued handcuffs in its place. A posh voice said,

“Let’s trade.”

John and Lestrade stared at each other. The posh voice continued,

“St. James has a Mass in fifteen minutes. And you both owe me a quid. You said you were giving up cursing for Lent.”

“After you, mate.” 

They were down the stairs in seconds.


	2. Mardi Gras (Sherlock POV, Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before, Sherlock's point of view, part 1. 
> 
> Might be helpful to know a little bit about [Mardi Gras](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mardi_Gras) and how it is celebrated in the US, specifically in New Orleans. A [hurricane](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_\(cocktail\)) is a rum-based, sweet cocktail, emblematic of New Orleans.

Sherlock was restless. Not bored, just restless.

 

She studied the remains of charred bones. She played her violin. She read up on ink-stained currency in solving armed robberies. She had a serious discussion with the skull about camels in rut.

 

She was not thinking at all about John, who had gone out with Mike Stanford and her American cousins to an expat pub to celebrate Mardi Gras.

 

_Not at all._

 

She was pleased and offended that John had not even invited her to come along. She’d rather use [the thumbscrew that John gave her ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1190226/chapters/2448529)on herself than watch inebriated foreigners engage in pathetic displays of hedonism and idiocy. And Sherlock Holmes did not make small talk, except for a case.

 

But...[situational disinhibition](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1190226/chapters/2499727). John was a creature of habit, routines, and rituals. Sherlock was quickly discovering that breaking with these routines had a tendency to bring out the _whore_ —to put it crudely—in her beloved. Lestrade was there, so John would be safe. Sherlock looked at the clock. They must be enjoying themselves if they were still out.

 

Sherlock Holmes was not worried. She was restless.

 

Cocaine was out of the question; tea was John’s realm. Sherlock looked at her bedroom door.

 

_She’d rub one out!_

 

_Perfect. Release, reset the mechanism, and get back to work undistracted._

 

She lay on her bed and thought about [the train to Paris](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1172915/chapters/2389043). She leaned over, opened a drawer, and took out a felt bag. Then, a better idea occurred. She went upstairs to John’s bed and breathed in her lover’s scent on the sheets. She had no sooner kicked off her shoes when the front door slammed.

 

 “But other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?”

 

“Bwah! Ha, ha ha!”

 

John _and Lestrade_.

 

Sherlock threw the felt bag under John’s bed and flew down the stairs. She quickly settled herself at the microscope on the kitchen table. She doubted either woman would notice that there wasn’t actually a slide in place.

 

Two sets of feet clomped loudly and clumsily up the stairs.

 

“Hullo, Sherlock!” cried Lestrade. “You missed a good time!”

 

“Doubtful,” said Sherlock dryly.

 

“Hullo, love,” said John. She wobbled and planted a kiss in the middle of Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock shirked and wrinkled her nose. _Cigarette smoke, beer, some fruity sugary cocktail, sweat, greasy chips, men’s cologne…_

 

 _Wait, what?_ Sherlock simmered.

 

“Throw me something, MISTER!” cried Lestrade. Both women wore numerous strings of plastic beads. One of Greg’s necklaces was adorned with little male genitalia. Greg grabbed the bottom of her shirt and made to lift it up.

 

“Stop, stop, stop!” protested John. “Nobody wants to see that, ol’ hag. Here are your beads.” John ripped a string of beads off her neck and threw them at Lestrade. They slid across the floor.

 

“Hurricane!” cried Lestrade and made a convulsion-like dance in a circle, waving her arms to and fro.

 

“I don’t know how you drink that sweet stuff,” remarked John. “Rum. Uck!”

 

“After the first six, you can’t really tell, mate,” slurred Lestrade. “Uh-oh. I think the eye of the storm has passed.” Lestrade shoved past Sherlock and leaned over the sink and vomited.

 

“You can’t go home like this,” said John. She rubbed circles on her friend’s back.

 

“Of course she can. That’s what taxis and upholstery cleaning fees are for. Good night,” said Sherlock quickly. _Men’s cologne, John, men’s cologne._

 

“No,” declared John. Sherlock gave her credit; John could still manage the Look, even three sheets to the wind. “She’ll kip on the sofa.”

 

Lestrade rose up between the pair. “Let’s not have a domestic. Mummy, Daddy, I love you both," said Lestrade solemnly. Then, she bent over and retched again. Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled her eyes.

 

“I am working on an experiment,” protested Sherlock, pointing to the thirty-six bovine ribs arranged around the room, the defleshed ones were on the sofa. _The “For Science, John!” argument only worked 38% of the time, but it was worth trying._ She wanted John alone.

 

Lestrade looked up from the sink and squinted. “Are those bullet holes in the bones? Have you been sweet-talking Sven in ballistics again?”

 

“It was the fuck-me boots. Works every time. On everyone,” quipped John.

 

“It’s not my fault that you hire forensics technicians based on tractability,” argued Sherlock. “I have Things to Do!” she whined. _Like figure out who the Paco Rabanne-wearing fuckwit is and engineer a poison to make his cock fall off. Scratch that, turn green and THEN fall off._

“Alright,” said John. _Ha! 38.2% of the time!_ “She can take my bed upstairs, and I’ll bunk with you.”

 

“Okay,” said Sherlock begrudgingly. _Good. John to myself._

Lestrade said wearily, “Just let me hit the loo, and I’ll be good.” John led her down the hall to the toilet. Then, John returned to the kitchen and got a plastic hospital basin and a bottle of water.

 

“You could be a little more hospitable, Sherlock. Jesus Christ!” said John as she went back down the hall.

 

“I thought you were giving up swearing for Lent,” said Sherlock. “Technically…” Sherlock made a show of looking at her watch. John made a rude gesture. _Who’s the man, John? Who’s the man? Who’s the man that got close enough, long enough to get his scent on you?_

John waited by the door, and Lestrade emerged.

 

“Ok?” asked John.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Alright, let’s tuck you in.” The two women slowly climbed the stairs.

 

“G’night, Sherlock,” mumbled Lestrade. Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. She was sitting in her chair, her fingers steepled at her lips.

 

John smiled as she came down the stairs.

 

“Hello, gorgeous,” she purred.

 

She stumbled to Sherlock and straddled her in the chair.

 

“Let’s fuck.”

 

_New problem. Mr. Fuckwit goes to the back burner._

“John…,” started Sherlock slowly. John stood up and danced drunkenly. “Throw me something, Mister!” she sang and flung her arms around.

 

_Not sexy at all. Good. It was easier not to want John if she appeared to need seizure precautions. Focus on that, and how awful she smells, and the hideous jumper._

 

John turned around and sat on Sherlock’s lap. She pulled the entire bunch of beads off her neck and dropped them with a clink on the floor. Then, she peeled the jumper off slowly. _No, no, no._ She leaned back against Sherlock and twined her arms around the back of Sherlock’s head, writhing slowly. Her light vest concealed nothing. “Throw me something , Mister,” she breathed. _Okay, that was sexy._ Sherlock gripped the arms of her chair tighter.

 

“John…” Sherlock started again. John sat up and looked back at Sherlock, took in the detective’s arms, which were still holding onto the chair. Rejection darkened her lover’s face. _No, no, no. Please, no._ “You don’t want me?” asked John, hurt. _Beautiful idiot._ John fumbled with the button on her jeans. She frowned frustratedly when clumsy fingers wouldn’t work. “You don’t want…”

 

_Thank you for proving the point._

 

Sherlock sighed and said, “You’re drunk.”

 

“So?” asked John, still trying to open her trousers. She grunted vexedly.

 

“Consent,” said Sherlock, not raising her eyes to heaven because she was an atheist. “The uni case, the other case, not to mention our own personal negotiations. You made your views very clear. I’m not going to risk what we have for a quick shag that you may regret.”

 

“I’m giving my consent now,” she barked, nearly slipping off her perch on Sherlock’s lap.

 

 _Is this what it’s like being the mature one? Dreadful._ “Sleep it off; we’ll fuck like rabbits in the morning.”

 

“Tomorrow’s Ash Wednesday,” moaned John.

“The Pope says you can’t fuck on Holy Days of Obligation?” asked Sherlock.

 

“I’m pretty sure the Pope—even this one—doesn’t want my tongue anywhere near your cunt on ANY day of the year. But that’s between me and him. Not going to happen,” sulked John. “Not tomorrow.”

 

Sherlock didn’t dare move her arms. She wouldn’t be able to stop.

 

_Focus on something that will rid me of my raging lady hard-on for this delectable creature…_

 

John put her hands on the top of the chair, on either side of Sherlock’s shoulders, and slowly leaned in.

 

_…something like Mycroft in a swimsuit or…_

 

“You need,” said John, “the Bible.”

 

_That would do it._


	3. Mardi Gras (Sherlock POV, part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resolution of consent issue + shower sex + possessive Sherlock.

“You need the Bible,” repeated John. She got up from Sherlock’s lap and lurched toward the bookcase. She tripped over a couple of fleshed bovine ribs in her path. She reached for a white tome with gold-edged pages.

 

Sherlock watched her lover.

 

“John, I don’t know…that the situation really calls for Scripture,” said Sherlock cautiously. Her voice was even, but her eyes clouded with concern—and apprehension.

_Glad I put a stop to the fucking. She’s not just drunk; she might be having some kind of Papist psychotic break!_

John flipped the book and shook it. An envelope fell out on the floor.

 

“Here,” she said, handing the envelope to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock opened it.

 

**I give my sober, willing, and informed consent to sexual relations with one Sherlock Holmes for the evening of Tuesday, March 4 and the early morning of Wednesday, March 5. I consent to all contact of a sexual nature, except the following….**

 

It was signed and dated by John the day before and _witnessed by Mr. Hudson!_

Sherlock closed her eyes and laughed. Then, she looked at John, who winked at her. _Adorable creature._

 

“There are eleven items on the verboten list,” said Sherlock. John nodded.

 

“Plenty of room for creativity.”

 

 

 

“First order of business is to get the pub stink off you,” said Sherlock. She picked John up and fireman carried her down the hall to the toilet.

 

“Might not be the best idea to shake up the drunk girl,” called John upside down.

 

“Hush,” said Sherlock. “If you were going to vomit, you would’ve at least once, and I don’t smell a trace of it on you.” Nevertheless, she set John down gently. She went about undressing her, removing her shoes, socks, and jeans.

 

“However, I do smell something else,” said Sherlock slowly. _Let’s deal with Mr. Fuckwit._ “Or rather, someone else.” Sherlock turned on the water. John removed her vest and underpants. Sherlock stripped out of her own clothes. The steam built. Sherlock helped John into the shower, then joined her, adjusting the shower head so the spray hit her between the shoulder blades.

 

She wrapped John in her arms. “Who was he?” asked Sherlock. A thousand other questions died on her lips.

 

“You mean you can’t tell,” said John coyly.

 

_You little Hobbit, you dare to play riddles with a dragon._

 

In an instant, Sherlock turned John and slammed her violently against the wall. Covering John’s body with her own, she slipped a hand between John’s face and the tiled wall a second before they hit.

 

“Who was he?” hissed Sherlock. They were both panting. Sherlock ran her free hand up and down John, from shoulder to thigh, possessively.

 

_Mine!_

John twisted. A twinge of relief washed over Sherlock as she scanned John’s face.

 

_No fear. We’re okay._

 

“American. Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” John pleaded. She opened her mouth, and Sherlock shifted to ravish it. Lips, teeth, but especially tongue. Plundering John’s mouth. Tasting. Licking. Wanting to please her, of course, always. And feeding Sherlock’s own desire, naturally. But, more importantly, in this moment, searching for evidence. She couldn’t taste him on John, but that wasn’t definitive. _Need more data._

 

John turned further and embraced Sherlock fully. Sherlock ran her hands all over John’s body. She could still smell him, and it drove her mad. She had been in his arms; the way she was now with Sherlock. _Mine, mine, mine._

 

“Mine!” The word escaped her lips.

 

“Yours.”

 

The tiny whimper was a balm. Sherlock took a deep breath.

 

“I can smell him on you.” She confessed, “It _affects_ me.” _Explanations are not apologies._

 

John handed her a bar of soap. “Wash him off me.”

 

Sherlock lathered her hands and rubbed circles on John’s skin. She worked systematically and methodically from her neck down.

 

“He was an American serviceman, with the Embassy detail,” said John. “He’d done a couple of tours…”

 

_Of course, Afghanistan. Stupid._

 

“And what? He bought you a ridiculous cocktail? He pulled you with some cheap line? Something about Allied forces?” huffed Sherlock bitterly. She finished soaping John’s ankles. Then she raised each foot carefully and washed it. John reached for the shampoo and lathered her hair.

 

“Rinse,” ordered Sherlock. Sherlock adjusted the shower head lower. They switched places, and John twisted under the warm spray. Sherlock scrubbed herself.

 

“Sherlock,” said John. “C’mon. Give me a little credit. He was polite.” They switched again, and Sherlock rinsed.

 

She wrapped John in her arms again. “Tell me,” she said. _Data. It’s all just data._

 

_Liar._

“Nothing. Happened. We just danced,” said John.

 

_Like this. With his arms around you. Bastard._

 

“One dance?” asked Sherlock.

 

_Not likely. Scent’s too strong. Don’t lie to me, John._

 

“A few, a while,” sputtered John. “He told me about a buddy of his who’d been killed…”

 

_Oh, you miserable Yankee shit…_

 

“…and how much he missed his family back home…”

 

_…your prick will be turning green and falling off…_

 

“…and how difficult it was re-adjusting to things…”

_…before any of your G.I. Joe buddies can save you._

 

White hot rage ignited. Sherlock hurled John against the tiled wall again.

 

“Mine, mine, mine,” she chanted as she licked and bit down John’s back and buttocks. She stood up and nuzzled at John’s neck. “Yours,” answered John, turning her head for an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss. Irrational thoughts plagued her. She needed to claim this woman, to brand her, to show the universe whose she was. She needed to destroy anything and everything that threaten her mate. That threatened to take _her_ mate from _her_ side. Scorch the earth.

 

The force of own reaction alarmed Sherlock, but then she observed John’s dilated eyes, her rapid pulse, and her laboured breathing. She considered.

 

_She likes this. Let’s see how much. Let’s loosen the leash on this monster. Just a little._

 

“He probably wanted more,” intoned Sherlock.

 

“He was lonely. He wanted someone to talk to,” said John, looking up at Sherlock with big saucer eyes. Then, a hint of a smile crossed her lips.

 

 _Good girl._ They kissed.

 

“That’s all?” asked Sherlock. Her lips brushed John’s wet hair. One hand gripped her buttock firmly.

 

“He might have wanted…more…more _comfort_ ,” stuttered John. “Might have wanted me on my knees. Sucking his cock.”

 

The image blew a fuse in Sherlock’s Mind Palace. She pounded her fists into the wall on either side of John’s head and growled in John’s ear. She nuzzled brusquely on both sides of John’s neck. John groaned loudly.               

“He might have wanted…to fuck my cunt. Quick. Rough. _Dry_.” Sherlock could hardly breathe for the furor inside her. _I am in love with an evil woman._  Strong, sure palms stroked John’s body, pinning her more firmly against the wall.

 

“What would you’ve done, John? Would you have let him… _use_ you…for his _comfort_?” Sherlock spat the words venomously. Sherlock spread John’s legs forcibly and ran a possessive hand up one of John’s thighs and down the other.

 

“I would’ve told him,” said John as she turned her head to look straight into Sherlock’s eyes, straight at the monster at the bottom of the well.

 

“That I belong to one Sherlock Holmes.”

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Mardi Gras (Sherlock POV, part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the handcuffs. Very short chapter to wrap up the Sherlock POV.

Sherlock and John were gasping for breath and sanity. Sherlock flipped John, pushing her back against the tiles so they faced each other. They kissed roughly. Eventually, Sherlock cut off the water and sat on the edge of the bathtub. She rested the top of her head against John.

 

_Breathe, breathe, breathe._

 

Her shoulders shook. John brushed the back of her head slowly.

 

Sherlock swallowed. _What now?_ _What would John do now?_ _Make a joke._

 

“I ought to chain you to my bed,” said Sherlock weakly, still winded. She looked up and threw John a feeble smile.

 

“Yes,” agreed John, pushing a damp curl from Sherlock’s face.

 

 _Oh, you sodden, pruney little Hobbit._ A multi-variable equation composed itself in Sherlock’s mind: devices, positions, flexibility, discomfort, trust, pleasure. She adjusted the variables like disks in a Bazeries cylinder.

 

Sherlock dried John and then herself with a towel. She slipped on her blue dressing gown. “Stay.” She left and returned with a short flannel dressing gown. John slipped it on. They walked hand-in-hand to Sherlock’s bedroom—with a short detour to retrieve a pair of handcuffs from the grey coat hanging in the living room. John crawled onto Sherlock’s bed.

 

“Remind me to return these in the morning,” Sherlock said. She took John’s left ankle and flicked one cuff around it. Then, she locked the other cuff around the iron bar of the footboard.

 

“Interesting choice,” said John. She leaned back and smiled at Sherlock with half-lidded eyes.

 

_Bedroom eyes. How appropriate._

 

“If you can’t touch me, what’s the bloody point?” argued Sherlock right before she buried herself in her beloved.


	5. Mardi Gras (Lestrade POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade upstairs

Greg stared at the ceiling. She bent her knee and put her foot on the floor beside the bed to stop the room from spinning.

 

It helped a little.

 

She was glad that she had made it to the kitchen sink before she vomited.

 

_How embarrassing!_

 

She clasped the plastic hospital basin that John had given her tightly in her right hand. She didn’t want to make a mess of John’s bed. The nausea came on quick sometimes and you were heaving before you knew it.

 

She hadn’t wanted to go tonight. In fact, she had secretly been hoping that her current investigation ran long so that she could give John a legitimate excuse for bailing on the evening. Showing Mike’s American cousins a good time on their last night in London just didn’t sound like fun; it sounded like chaperoning, and she was far too old for that. But there had been a break in the case, and they’d wrapped up the loose ends quickly—without a certain consulting detective being on the scene, thank you very much—and she’d had no real reason not to go.

 

And it just went to show that the nights you planned painstakingly often flopped and the ones you dreaded could turn out spectacular. She and John’d gotten completely pissed, sang karaoke, danced on the tables, and generally made magnificent arses of themselves in an expat pub that was hosting Mardi Gras.

 

She heard the shower downstairs.

 

She’d slipped into John’s bed in her knickers, bra, and vest, depositing her shirt, trousers, socks, and boots in a pile on the floor by the foot of the bed. She knew that she must smell like pub, but she’d just have to deal with that in the morning.

 

A raw groan floated up from the shower.

 

_Ho, ho HO!_

 

Good for John. For what John had to put up with from Sherlock, she should be fucked wherever and whenever she pleased.

 

_Ugh!_

 

Greg felt bile rise in her throat. She turned quickly on her right side and held the basin to her chin. The motion, however, gave her vertigo, and she dizzily rolled back on her left. She dropped the empty basin on the floor, knocking over a bottle of water that John had left for her. The bottle rolled under the bed.

 

_Fuck!_

 

Greg really wanted that water. She managed to crawl on the floor and looked under the bed for the bottle. It had rolled toward the middle of the bed. She pushed a felt bag out of the way, reaching, and something rolled out of it. It looked like a torch. Good. She didn’t want to turn on the overhead light.

 

_Wait, this isn’t a torch._

 

_John Watson, you naughty, naughty girl!_

 

Greg examined the vibrator.

 

_Ho, ho HO! But surely John doesn’t use it dry._ She turned over the felt bag and a bottle of lubricant fell out.

 

_John is never going to hear the end of this! Ha!_

 

She put the vibrator and the lubricant back in the bag and left it on the floor. Then, she crawled slowly, gingerly back in bed.

 

She closed her eyes and heard the downstairs bedroom door shut. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she started to hear noises through the air vent. They weren’t very loud, but—even in her drunken state Greg could tell—they were of a very _discernible_ activity.

 

“Oh, John!” moaned Sherlock.

 

_Give it to her good, Watson!_

 

“Open those legs for me, Princess. Show me that pretty cunt.”

 

_Oh, OH!_

 

Greg felt warm. She pulled off her vest and turned on her side toward the sounds.

 

Sighs. Whimpers. Grunts. Greg ached. She put her hand between her legs. The center of her knickers was damp. She slipped out of her knickers and bra and turned on her stomach. The soft coolness of the sheets against her nakedness felt wonderful. She rubbed her nipples. She wanted to…She wanted to… _fuck_.

 

Greg pulled her knees under her. The noises rising from the lower floor faded and were replaced by the soundtrack of her own fantasy. Something big, strong, dark, menacing was behind her. A man, an animal, some mythical creature, in her carnal, drunken haze, she didn’t know. Or care. But it wanted her. It wanted to mount her, to take her.

 

She remembered the felt bag. _Oh, that would be so good. To feel full. To feel taken._ She reached down and retrieved the vibrator and lubricant. She clumsily applied lube to the device and threw the bottle on the floor. She imagined leather-clad hands smoothing down her back and over her rump, spreading her legs, spreading her folds. She held the tip of the vibrator at her entrance.

 

“ _Please! Please!_ ” A plaintive plea pierced her thoughts. She wasn’t even sure whose voice it was.

 

Maybe it was her own. She pushed the vibrator in her.

 

“Gregory,” moaned the creature. She held the instrument steady inside her and leaned up on her other hand, searching for the perfect angle. When she found it, she growled with satisfaction and flexed strong thighs, riding it hard. The beast was pounding into her.

 

When her legs tired, she turned on her side and twisted the base of the vibrator.

 

_Oh, yes!_

She wet two fingers in her mouth and ran them on either side of her clit. She played with herself while the vibrations pulsed inside her. The creature wanted to mate her, breed her. She pushed down on the device slightly and squeezed around it, imagining ribbons of seed flooding her. She gave wild cry and came.

 

_Careful. Okay. Need to…_

 

Sleep overtook her.

 

 

 

 


	6. Ash Wednesday (John & Lestrade POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Lestrade at Mass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olga is an original character, a German Sheppard dog that Lestrade adopted. She's mentioned in Chapter 8 of [Backstory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1135128/chapters/2298599).

 

****

Two figures kneeled. Two heads bowed.

 

 

_Bless Sherlock, keep her clean and safe._

**Bless Sherlock, keep her clean and safe, for John’s sake.**

_Bless Harry and Mycroft and the souls of Mum and Dad._

**Bless Olga.**

_Bless the sick and their loved ones, doctors and nurses and everyone who lays hands on others in the name of healing. Make us instruments of compassion and hope._

**Bless my team and all the ones who run toward danger when others run away. Make us instruments of justice and peace.**

 

Two pairs of hands unclasp. A left hand and a right hand rested on the back of the pew. Two little fingers found each other and laced.

 

_Bless my friend._

**Bless my friend.**

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a short series focusing on Fem!John and Fem!Lestrade's friendship.


End file.
